The Devil Knocks

by Frank Rich

  He grinned like a wolf. "Security."

  I squeezed past him into the cabin. Both pilots glanced up from their instruments.

  "Where we at, boys?" I leaned over their shoulders and stared at the view screens.

  "Well, we just crossed the Potomac River," the Oriental said. "We'll touch down at the LZ in less than four hours."

  "And where exactly is that?"

  The Oriental started to answer, but Smiley cut him off. "Your navigator knows where you'll be."

  "My navigator?"

  "Bruce."

  "Oh."

  "Look at that," the black said, pointing at one of the many screens. He typed in a command, and the screen went to close-up. Clusters of ragged humanity huddled around shacks.

  "It's a refugee camp," the black said. "There must have been trouble in Baltimore or D.C." The high-resolution camera brought in the smoky campfires, the tattered clothes hanging from shrunken bodies, the skull-like faces staring up at us. "Look at those animals," the black said. "Just like wild dogs. We should just wipe them all out and build cities out here."

  "They're all cannibals, you know," the Oriental warned. "They'd rip the flesh off your bones as soon as look at you."

  The black shivered and squinched up his nose. "How can those savages live like that?"

  "Maybe they don't have any choice," I said.

  "Of course they do," the black said, frowning.

  I moved back toward Smiley. "So what's your job when you're not security?"

  He smiled and shrugged.

  "Are you a shooter?" I asked confidentially.

  He smiled wider. "What makes you think that?"

  "I know the look." I leaned against the bulkhead next to him and lit a vitacig. "How many have you popped, killer?"

  He smiled and shrugged.

  "Ten?"

  He smirked and rolled his eyes.

  "Twenty? Fifty?"

  "You're getting a little warm." He yawned.

  "Excuse me," the Oriental said over his shoulder. "But you're not supposed to smoke in here."

  "Oh, sorry," I said, putting out the cigarette on Smiley's trigger hand. The hand jumped from the machine pistol, and I drove my elbow into the bridge of his nose once, twice, then a third time. I felt the pop of the sinus bones splintering into Smiley's brain, and he slumped to the floor and twitched. I picked up his machine pistol and pointed it at the pilots.

  "You can smoke! You can smoke!" the Oriental cried.

  "Thanks," I said. "Where are we now?"

  "Uh…" he went back to his instruments "…we passed over Charlottesville thirty seconds ago."

  "Where's the disembark point?"

  "Twenty miles west of Englewood, Colorado."

  "Let's go somewhere else."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. How about that way?" I pointed to the left.

  "South? You want to go south?"

  "Why not? It's warm down there."

  "How far south?"

  "I don't know." I sat down in the rear chair and lit a vitacig. "Just keep going until I tell you to stop."

  8

  The lift settled on the dry soil of a soybean field next to a deserted two-lane highway. As the engines wound down, the crew busied themselves with their instruments.

  "Where do you think we're at?" I asked.

  "I don't know," the Oriental said. "That last city we passed could have been Richmond. I'm just not sure."

  "Good," I said.

  "There's people out there," the black hissed, pointing at a screen. He was right. A dozen dirty faces turned from their labors in the field and stared back. "Animals."

  "Cannibals," the Oriental amended.

  I peered at the screen. "Jesus, you're right," I said. "Open the cargo door."

  "They might try and rush us!" the black exclaimed. "Look! They're creeping this way!"

  "They probably just want to see if they can bum a ride." I nudged him with the machine pistol, and he keyed a button. I stuck my head into the cargo hold and called George to the front.

  He stepped in, careful not to step on the body of Smiley. "What happened to him?"

  "The Devil jerked the soul right out of him. Get our baby grounded. Let Bruce help you. I'll be out in a minute."

  George nodded and went back to the Caddy. I closed the door. The pilots twisted in their seats and stared at me.

  "Stand up," I told them.

  Exchanging frightened glances, they slowly rose.

  "Step away from the controls."

  As if stepping from behind a bulletproof shield, they dragged their feet to the side of the cabin.

  "Where's the radio?" I asked. The Oriental pointed a finger. "And the navigation system?"

  "If you kill us," he said, "you'll never be able to fly this thing."

  "You don't think so?"

  They both shook their heads.

  "Fuck it, then." I emptied the machine pistol into the control panel, making sure the radio and navigation system got a generous share of the slugs. The pilots cringed against the hull, certain they'd been shot. I dropped the machine pistol and opened the door.

  "You can't leave us here," the black said. "This is the wilds, they'll eat us!"

  "Maybe the animals are friendly," I said, closing the door behind me.

  The Caddy squatted On the roadside, and Bruce stormed up the ramp.

  "What was that noise?" he asked.

  "What noise?"

  "The noise from the cabin. It sounded like gunfire."

  "That was the engine backfiring." I started down the ramp.

  "Bullshit," he snapped, continuing toward the cabin. "I'm going to check it out myself."

  "Take your time," I said as I walked to the passenger side of the Caddy.

  George sat on the hood, staring in every direction. "I forgot how big the world was."

  "Big and mean," I said, noticing the group of dirt farmers lurking around the front of the lift. "Hey!" I yelled.

  They startled and leaned away, ready to bolt.

  "You want it?" I said, motioning toward the lift.

  They straightened up and stared at me blankly.

  "It's yours," I said. "You can live in it." I looked to George. "Let's roll, brother."

  We climbed into the car and George started up the engine. "Where's Bruce?"

  "Screw him," I said. "Let's go."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Sure I'm serious. This bus don't wait for nobody. Get on the road and take a left." I looked in the back seat. "Did you bring any beer?"

  Bruce marched down the ramp, his arms full of equipment. Seeing us, he charged through the gang of refugees and headed off the Caddy just as we were about to pull away. He dumped his gear in the back and jumped in. "Where do you think you're going?" he screamed.

  "I thought you wanted to stay," I said as George pulled the Caddy onto the road and accelerated.

  "What are you talking about!" Bruce hit the back of the seat with a fist. "Who were those crazy fuckers that tried to grab me as I came out? This landing zone is supposed to be secure!"

  "Those were the new owners," I explained.

  He stared at me in exasperation. "Owners? Owners of what?"

  "The lift. I gave it to them."

  His face gorged with blood, his teeth clenched, and his neck muscles twitched like taut cables. He leaned back slowly and gripped his thighs, his breath controlled and heavy.

  "Did you talk to the pilots?" I asked.

  "No," he said between clenched teeth. "They wouldn't open the door."

  "I didn't think they would. They probably thought you were a cannibal."

  He clamped his teeth tighter and stared out the window.

  "I wonder where we're at," I said.

  "Northeastern Colorado," Bruce snarled.

  "Sure as hell doesn't look like Colorado to me," George said. "Unless somebody moved the Rockies."

  "Of course it's Colorado," Bruce said, digging out a gang of plastic maps from a case.
"We're two hours out of Denver."

  "Here comes a sign." George pointed at a distant green rectangle.

  "Looks like we're twenty miles from Durham, North Carolina," I said happily. "Baby, we in the south."

  "Impossible!" Bruce cried. "It can't be, the sign is wrong!"

  "Ah, North Carolina," George sighed. "The Tarheel state. You know, I always liked the Carolinas."

  "We're way off course!" Bruce roared. He thrashed at his pile of maps. "I don't even have a goddamn map of North Carolina!" He glared at his chrono. "We were supposed to be at the Englewood LZ fifteen minutes ago! They'll be waiting for us!"

  "Who'll be waiting for us?" I asked.

  "None of your goddamn business!" He pulled his radio out of a canvas bag and began punching buttons. "How could those idiot pilots have screwed up that bad?"

  "They acted drunk," I said, turning to George. "What's the stereo system like?"

  "Top rate. Full-range scent generator. Earth-pounding bass. Would you like a listen?"

  "Certainly."

  George slipped in a nickel-sized music chip. Big bass booms introduced angelic synth voices and what sounded like somebody tinkling on tin cans. A tinny hillbilly voice wrapped in a woodsy smell came on, singing in gospel tones, mouthing nonsensical words.

  "I thought religious winos were the only ones who listened to this tin-can foolishness," I said.

  "It's the only music that's honest," George said. "Listen to the words."

  "They don't say anything. It's all psychobabble."

  "That's exactly it! From birth we've been taught words but no meanings. This is the first music I can understand because there's nothing to understand. Get it?"

  "Did we bring any beer or not?"

  George reached under the seat and pulled out a four-pack. I peeled one off and rubbed the cooling element.

  "Turn that shit down!" Bruce shouted. "I'm trying to make a goddamn call!"

  "What'd you say?" I said, turning up the volume.

  "Hello! Hello! Control Station Freedom!" Bruce shouted into the radio mike. "Do you hear me?"

  "Control Station Freedom?" George raised his eyebrows. "You guys take your game seriously, don't you?"

  "Damn straight," I said. "We're not here to screw around."

  "This is Mobile Strike Force Liberty!" Bruce cried. "Yes! It's me!"

  "Boy, listen to that chorus, breathe in that fragrance!" George exalted, popping open a beer. "An olfactory genius designed the scent track. The perfume of angels."

  "We're in goddamn North Carolina, that's where we're at!" Bruce explained to distant ears. "I don't know what happened. The pilots defected or something. Everything is wrong. These two assholes won't turn down the music! They tried to leave me! They gave the lift away! They're drinking beer! They're not taking it seriously at all! We have to abort! Abort!"

  "We're taking up the reins of Homer and Whitman and Kerouac, that's what we're doing," I said. "Wild on the road, no greater meaning or purpose than the miles racing madly away beneath our feet. Man, this is all there is."

  "What about the revolution?" George asked.

  I frowned, my revelry derailed. "The revolution is merely the end to a means. Right now the means are more real and vital than the end."

  "What do you mean, deal with it?" Bruce screamed into the mike. "It's out of control! Alcohol! Carolina! Defection! Cannibals!" He took the handset from his head and hung it up with a vicious slap. "Bastards! They hung up on me!"

  I turned down the music. "Trouble at Control Station Freedom?"

  He folded his arms tightly.

  "Don't sweat it, Bruce," I consoled, opening another can of beer. "We'll get there."

  "Shut up!"

  "All is not well at Mobile Strike Force Liberty," George noted.

  * * *

  The miles melted away as we raced down Super Speedway 66, part of a vast network of tar-composite speedways built to last five hundred years, the last great achievement of the corporate era. We shot past the sprawling factories of Greensboro and left the soybean fields of Winston-Salem in our wake.

  The radio was our culture detector. Radio stations came and faded, speaking in the voice of the region. Near the cities, Party compupop jammed the airwaves, computer-generated upbeat disco music churned out by the competing Party machines. The deeper we rolled into the badlands, the more varied and daring became the music. Independent pirate stations ricocheted Party-banned grooves off the atmosphere, bellowing the words of dissent and anger. Revolution rock, crime jazz, rat music, deathsoul, killbilly beat, artnoise, gospeltech, all different in form yet all speaking the same message of independent thought.

  We stopped at a fuel station outside Morganton, N.C., the Smoky Mountains lurking before us. George stretched out while I pumped the tank full of alcohol.

  "Have you noticed all the crazy people?" George asked.

  I looked around. He was right; they were everywhere, gangs of them at every exit and stop. They seemed to be going everywhere at once, rushing madly about, hitching rides, jumping in and out of cars, in no common direction, always moving, always laughing.

  "It's all the radiation and chemical spills they have out here," Bruce said from inside the car. "They're all chemically imbalanced."

  I paid the attendant, and George got behind the wheel. I climbed in beside him.

  Bruce stuck his head out the window as we pulled away. "They all seem to be in such a hurry. I wonder where they're going?"

  "Probably not anywhere in particular," I said. "They're just in a hurry."

  "Their home is the road," George waxed. "The back seats of strange cars rushing down the freeway, the dust and gravel of a thousand roadsides, the vinyl booths of truck stops, the…"

  "Shut up!" Bruce screamed. "If you're going to talk, talk with your mouth closed."

  George frowned at me. "Who is this guy, anyway? What's his function?"

  "He's my baby-sitter."

  "Don't call me that," Bruce snapped.

  "He's supposed to brief me about the revolution, but," I said, sighing, "as you can see, he's just not interested in doing his job."

  "I'm not doing shit for you."

  "See?"

  "See this?" Bruce said, showing me his middle finger.

  I ignored the gesture. "Fortunately," I said, reaching into my duffel bag, "I brought my own briefing packet." I put the manila folder on my lap and opened it.

  Bruce leaned forward. "Where'd you get that?"

  "Marlene gave it to me." I began leafing through the thick stack of documents. "Wait till Rob hears you wouldn't give me my briefing."

  That shook him. "All right!" he shouted, digging out his own packet. "I'll give you your goddamn briefing."

  I yawned. "Let's hear it, then."

  Bruce pulled an eight-by-ten glossy from his packet and held it up to me. "Who is this man?" he demanded.

  I studied the photo intently. "I'd guess it's Burbank Bob, king of the Gypsy cowboys."

  "No, it isn't," Bruce snarled. "This is Remi Jonson, Party director of Denver. The despotic leader of a tyrannical regime."

  "He looks like a deranged dwarf," George commented. "Look at his eyes, he's totally crazed. I bet he does ten balls of squeeze a day."

  "Wrong," Bruce said. "He has no chemical addictions. And he's crazy, all right, crazy like a fox. In just ten years he moved from a low-level Party scientist to sole leader of a city of two million."

  "Don't listen to him, George," I advised. "I've followed Burbank Bob for years. That's definitely him."

  "I don't believe I'm hearing this!" Bruce raged. "I'm working with clowns!"

  "Just do your job, mister," I said.

  Bruce pulled a data sheet from the packet and began to read furiously. "Remi Jonson was born to a poor immigrant family. Even as a child he showed a huge interest in science and technology. This interest has grown into an obsession. The motto of his regime is Technology Will Set You Free. Most of Denver's budget goes into modernization programs
, most of which are abandoned before completion because Remi loses interest and moves on to new projects."

  "He sounds as crazy as he looks," George said.

  "He does suffer from psychiatric ailments. He's been diagnosed by outside experts as an obsessive schizophrenic megalomaniac. He runs Denver like a giant cult. By the way, the code name for Remi is Lord Cobra. From this point on he will be addressed as such."

  "I don't like that name," I said. "It doesn't suit him."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "Symbolism. It has to fit him. Look at his picture. I say we call him… King Weasel."

  "He does look more like a rodent than a snake," George pointed out.

  "I don't care what he looks like! His code name is Lord Cobra!"

  "Do we get code names?" George asked.

  "Damn right," I said. "Mine's going to be Rogue Quixote. You can be the Great Frilled Lizard. Bruce will be the Illustrious Dingbat."

  "That's it!" Bruce roared. He slammed his folder shut and locked his arms across his chest. "If you're not going to take it seriously, I'm not going to brief you."

  A tense silence rode with us for five minutes. Finally I said, "We're sorry, Bruce."

  "Too bad!"

  "We were wrong and we apologize. Right, George?"

  "Absolutely," George said. "We had no right to upset your fine presentation."

  "Please continue your superb briefing, Bruce," I said. "The overthrowing of a city of two million is, after all, a very serious subject. We must strive together to reach this admittedly difficult goal. We salute you as an important cog in the wheel, and you have our solemn promise we will be attentive and civil students."

  "No more interruptions?" Bruce snapped.

  "None at all," I assured.

  "No more contradictions?"

  "You have my solemn word."

  "All right." He reopened the folder and began reading. "The Party administration tower, built on the ruins of the state capitol, is the tallest building in Denver. It is also the command center of Lord Cobra…"

  "King Weasel," I quietly corrected.

  "Lord Cobra! Lord Cobra! It's in all the planning sheets!"

  "You're a bloody liar," I accused.

  Seconds later Bruce was shouting at his radio. "Control Station Freedom, come in."

  "How about some music?" I asked George.